I was finally able to wear my corporate wardrobe again. The soutiens-gorge were back in circulation as were the patent high heels. They glided along the marble floors. As it was winter, Babcia’s tomatoes had been turned into rich luscious sauce, so I enjoyed self catered pasta lunches.

In my first few days, I wondered why there were so many interstate lawyers and barristers floating around the courts. I finally realised that the suit cases were not filled with overhead luggage but forests of paperwork to be used as ammunition during litigation. The law court building was busier than JFK airport replete with security cameras, guards and real coffee.

One of my first tasks was to sit in on a high profile case for a doctor suing his employer for wrongful dismissal. No it wasn’t his fault that the scissors were left inside the patient. That was the sous Doctor’s job to check that all the utensils were accounted for following the appendectomy. With no legal training, I found it difficult to follow the arguments of the two barristers.

Blue Silk                      “My client was well within his rights to terminate the contract of employment pursuant to section 42. 3, subsection 5 paragraph 2 of the Labour Relations Act 1988.

White Silk                   “Had my learnered colleague bothered to check his references he would rightly know that section paragraph 2 of subsection 5 of Section 42.3 had been superseded with an addendum that clearly stipulates that employers cannot summarily dismiss an employee without due cause.”

Blue Silk                      “We believe that the Doctor abdicated their duty to the patient when he delegated the closure of the patient to a registrar with limited surgical experience. This pathological dereliction of duties is sound cause for dismissal thereby rendering the addendum obsolete.”

And so the pissing contest went on for another 45 minutes until Chief Justice Ewing cottoned on to what was going on and chastised both white and blue silks and asked them to stick to persecuting the facts, not each other’s reputations.

I grew quite fond of Chief Justice Ewing. He, like most ludicrously bright & eccentric people, and some advertising agents, had a predilection for bow ties. They were resplendent in colour and texture from the most vibrant silks to the most densely woven wool. He carried them off with aplomb.

The doctor’s case had regrettably attracted the media vultures.Turns out the health care service was a private facility notorious for firing medical staff deemed too liberal with their surgeries and pathology requests. Unbeknown to me, Chief Justice Ewing also held shares in the company. This came to light when a tabloid journalist called the chambers looking for a comment.  When I checked in with Chief Justice Ewing, he raised one eyebrow, took a slow breath and said in no uncertain terms that he had divested himself of those, and any other shares that he felt may be in direct conflict with the high office. The journalist wasn’t interested in hearing the facts and threatened me with publishing the story in situ unless he was granted an interview with the Chief Justice. This wasn’t my first time at the party and my killer instincts were as sharp as ever. A few choice words and the journalist backed off. Chief Justice Ewing nodded as he walked past my desk and said “Well executed Alexandra.”

Dah Dum.

Clearly the word has got out that I am a fabulous host that the smaller bugs invited two elephants to take up residence in my nasal cavities. Every time I walk, I feel like I wake them up and they start doing a little salsa dance up there.

My body feels like a YMCA, tired and overrun by Germans. So there is nothing else to do but rest until my own body is strong enough to kill the bugs and elephants. So rest I do.

Fortunately I have the T.V for company. However, I had forgotten how bad daytime television is. The first half of the day appears to be flush with cooking shows where the chef’s starched white aprons are bereft of any evidence of cooking. The early afternoon is dominated by diet plans that presumably are designed to take the weight off from all the cooking you have been doing in the morning. And by the late afternoon you are inundated with insurance choices. Death, disability, funeral plans, bad hair cut, anything.  So if you didn’t feel sick at the beginning of the day, daytime T.V will certainly make you feel ill by the end of it.

I strongly suspect that the employer groups and T.V programmers are in collusion. The powerful employer groups have lobbied the T.V stations that in return for ad buys that would rival Ghana’s annual GDP, the T.V stations will ensure they programme the most excruciatingly painful shows that no cold could ever compete with. The pain of the shows combined with the pain of the cold is enough to have you praying for the sweet release of death which is where the funeral plans come in.

On the Richter pain scale, the worst shows appear to be the ones loosely labelled as Reality TV.  And I will never have my own reality TV show because:

• I sing like a cat with a severe case of gastroenteritis
• I dance as though I am directionally challenged
• I don’t cook, I assemble
• I have nightmares about running through the streets naked
• I have all my original body parts
• I am not a housewife
• I am a porcelain princess and couldn’t survive anywhere without a functioning toilet
• I have nothing to confess except my secret love of Sam Waterston
• I failed year 9 wood work and wouldn’t know the difference between a hammer and a golf club
• I don’t own a castle

So I will make myself a bowl of Polish penicillin and pray that the bugs have the good manners, like a hangover, and leave after a day.

After the first day, I realised I seriously needed to re-think my wardrobe. Even my lovely patent kitten heals sounded like seagulls with severe case of gout pacing up and down the temporary floorboards. So I decided to go fully utilitarian with my daily attire, right down to my brassieres. They were no longer encased in gorgeous elegant butter soft lace, but held up with NASA like padding designed to perform their duty of being a Bustenhalter (German word for brassieres: house for breasts).

My background as a chemical engineer would have been of little use to the civil engineers. They like to play with dirt, I used to like making things explode. The temporary accommodation portables looked like they had been fitted out by a Zen master. Everything was functional, practical and streamlined. Everything except the paperwork on my desk. Engineers like designs, and a lot of them so I would have 73 version of the proposed freeway fly-over that I would need to fold just so. I earned major brownie points for knowing how to fold an A3 into a neatly folded A4 that would fit in the planning folders.

For obvious reasons, I love engineers. They are equal parts logic and creativity. No hammer, no problem, just use your Blundstones. No fork, no problem, just tightly wind up your napkin and fashion it into a spoon.

The construction site was filled with the smell of testosterone and cement. Construction also attracts a diverse range of staff. There was such a cacophony of different accents that I felt like I was at a UN council meeting. Although their accents may have varied, their language didn’t. Engineers, I think, have been wrongly accused of having limited vocabularies. I beg to differ. They are, as with most things, efficient and expedient. Why use five words when you can get away with one or two. For example, they can be quite versatile in their use of the F-Bom. They use it to convey myriad expressions:

Excitement              F#@!

Curiosity                 What the F#@!

Disappointment    No F#@!ing way

Anger                      F#@! Off

Satisfaction            Now that’s what I’m F#@!ing talking about

The Project Director was fast and furious with the F-Bom when he came charging up to my desk. I thought I was going to be fired, but he wanted to see version 103 of the northern section of the freeway. He paced like a nervous coach as I slid across the floor boards and handed him the file. He opened the file to the appropriate page and swore at the electrical engineer as he pointed to the specifications.

“See that? The street lights face into the street you dumb ass, not onto the people’s backyards. What the F#@! Were you trying to do, turn six kilometers of street lights into an airport runway? Fix it!”

The cohort of staff consisted mainly of university students or mothers. I was neither. Each of us was bonded together by the desire to reach our evening targets, get our commission and get out.

Starting at 6pm and finishing at 9.30pm, armed with one of Babcia’s (Polish for grandmother) crusty bread (the one that is shreds the roof of your mouth) and her home grown tomato sandwiches, I would take my place at my booth, perusing what inane questions I would be harassing people with.

We covered myriad topics from how important was spreadability in your butter, how much lather was enough in your shaving foam and, occasionally, election campaigns.

Before each shift, we were briefed by the designated supervisors on that evening’s campaign and our targets. This particular campaign was about a new prototype contraceptive, a bit like a malleable tampon made out of, what appeared to be, a phallic shaped washing up sponge. Given that this was a delicate subject matter we were coached on how lead into the questions and extract maximum qualitative information.  My first call didn’t pass the qualifying questions as it was an all men household. The second call didn’t yield better results as it was a retired couple household who had as much need for contraception they did jet skis.

Seventh call, finally a qualified respondent. Are you a woman of child bearing years? Tick. Are you currently in a relationship? Tick. How often do you engage in sexual intercourse: once a week, 2-3 times per week, 4-5 times per week, every day? Silence. Me “Mam, what do you mean you don’t do it?” Silence.

For the first three months, I couldn’t work out why I would only ever make half the quotas of some of the seasoned staff. They had time to sashay around the cubicles chatting to their friends and supervisors. While I, like Pavlov’s dog, just kept pressing the call drop button hoping to get a qualified respondent. The mystery was solved when I sat next to one of the superstar researchers, David. Typically, the noise levels of the phone room would rival that of a Guns n’ Roses concert. Listening in to one of David’s calls in the hope of getting some pointers, I couldn’t help overhear a faint but eloquent voice that kept repeating herself. “The number you have called is either disconnected or out of range. Please check the number before dialling again.” I suspected David didn’t check the number because the disconnection voice furnished him with erudite responses on the viscosity of her mascara and meeting his quota.

As you could imagine, the political campaigns were my favourites. In addition to the tiresome questions on what the pundits thought of the party’s health agenda, foreign aid policy or public transport upgrades, I channelled Barbara Walter’s for the harder hitting questions like:

“Does wearing red make the female candidates appear more aggressive or more confident?”

“Which campaign slogan do you prefer Moving Forward or Pursue Your Dream?”

 “Are candidate Higginbotham’s sideburns too long?”

So I moved in with my maternal Polish grandmother, took on her last name of Kandinsky, and registered myself as a temp.

My first assignment was as a cosmetic counter dolly at a prestigious department store. At 5’10 and unruly red hair (thanks to my Irish father) I looked like a female impersonator in a dental hygienists uniform.

There were more models there than a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, all with legs that went from here to eternity. Cecilia was one such specimen. Despite the fact that Cecilia was raised on a farm, she sounded more like Charles Dance than Dolly Parton. I suspect the voice was part of the training to get her into any country’s Next Top Model. We struck up a conversation one afternoon as we were wrapping “Easter cleansing packs” when she casually asked what we were celebrating at Easter.I explained that it was the death of Christ. She followed up by asking what we celebrated at Christmas, to which I replied, the birth of Christ. Cecelia paused, looked up from the mountain of red cellophane and said “Didn’t last very long did he?”

One of my least favourite parts of the job was the lunchtime shift. They would only ask the taller models, and me to stand at the front of the counter and accost the olfactory senses of the poor unsuspecting shoppers. I think this was a strategic ploy on the counter manager because we could descend on the customers from a greater height thereby enabling maximum contact with the offending scent. We used to rotate the perfume of the day from bug spray with a hint of lemon, to sea spray and patchouli

Another of my key performance indicators was to perform a minimum of eight facials per week. I used to enjoy these as many of the clients who booked in were my regulars who would shamelessly take advantage of the ‘buy two products get a free facial’ offer. This one morning however, I wasn’t giving a facial to one of my regulars but to an immaculately preserved 50 something year old introduced herself as Mrs Carlton. As I waited for Mrs Carlton’s essence of hibiscus mask to set, I began working on her free hand massage with our signature Chinese silk and Himalayan sugar crystal balm, when she looked up at my name badge and said “You’re Russian aren’t you? My daughter-in-law is Russian, so I know what Russian women look like.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t Russian. I was tempted thought to humble brag my cosmetology pedigree to by confessing to Mrs Carlton that I was, in fact, the granddaughter of Estee Lauder and Max Factor.

The myriad women, who made it to my counter regardless of age or race, were all seduced by the promise of enhanced beauty in a bottle, serum or balm. And so was Tom. I absolutely adored him. An account manager for large multinational advertising agency by day and by night, cabaret performer known as Miss Allegra. Tom came in one afternoon looking resplendent in his multi-coloured vertically stripped pants. He had more plumage than a peacock. Tom patiently entertained himself smothering cream on his face as I finished up with a customer. With half his face still covered in the thick cream, he greeted me with an effervescent “So darl, how long before the cream starts to take effect, I have a hot date tonight?’ To which I replied, “Not sure Tom, you’ve just smeared bust firming gel all over your face.”

Round One

Female Recruiter:            Immaculately groomed 22 year old, sporting more colours in her hair than a Jackson Pollock painting.

‘Urrr cliunt is looking to move forward with majah media campaign, strictly high level struhtegy.’

Me:                                        Red dress, 32 years old and two toned hair colour.

‘I have liaised with the United Nations, negotiated a six point peace plan for Palestine, split the atom and Edward De Bono is my real father.’

Female Recruiter:        ‘Thank you for your time Alexandra, we’ll be in touch.’

Me:        ‘I would appreciate feedback on how we progress this Imogen.’

Female Recruiter:            ‘Um sorry Alexundra, the cliunt was really looking for someone with straight A’s in their academic record.’

Me:        ‘Um, I believe the last person to score straight A’s on his academic record was Sir Robert Menzies.

Female Recruiter:            Looks up Robert Menzies on LinkedIn.

Right, well clearly not going to get that job. I mean how much more high level can you get than a press secretary for a cabinet minister? Christ, I even learnt how to verb nouns and was forever moving forward and workshopping concepts. My straw man pictures would have done Picasso proud.

Round Two

Male recruiter:  ‘Alexandra, you have an impressive resume and held a coveted position in the minister’s office. Why did you leave on the eve of an election?’

Me:        Clearly not as clueless as the Jackson Pollock consultant. I was sitting across the Jon Stewart of recruiters.

‘The decision to move was not taken lightly Jon. I felt it was time to pursue a new direction in my career without compromising the election campaign.

Male Recruiter: ‘So what direction would you like to take?’

Me:        ‘Moving forward Jon, I had hoped to synergise my strong political and commercial acumen by crystallising them into strong triple bottom line results with a large multi-national, moving forward.’

Male Recruiter: “Mmm, well, we have nothing that fits your requirements at the moment, but I will certainly keep you in mind. Thank you for taking the time to see us Alexandra.’

Exit stage left.

Round Five

Female recruiter:             ‘Impressive resume Alexandra, please tell me what first attracted you to this role.’

Me:        ‘I have always been passionate about the green pot bellied frog and feel that the conservation council has a lot to offer in our eco-centric society.’

Female Recruiter:            ‘Yes, that is exactly how we feel. Unfortunately Alexandra, we do feel that you may be slightly over qualified for the role and may not provide you with the challenges you need. We can only offer a media relations officer focusing on the annual bush walking fundraiser.

Me:        ‘Thank you for your time Verity, best of luck with the campaign.’

Exit theatre.

In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two distinct, yet equally important groups. The police who investigate the crimes and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.

And this is me…………..

In the vocational employment sector, candidates are represented by two distinct yet equally important groups. The recruitment consultants who hire them and the employers who persecute them. This is one Temp’s story.

It has been 4.7 years since the fateful day that I found out I was going to be liberated from my position as chief press secretary to the Hon. P.J Hawthorn. Staff from the Departments of Agriculture and Regional Affairs and, Environment, Sustainability and Water were called into a meeting to discuss the amalgamation of the two departments and associated budget cuts. Two ministers, two colossal egos, one department. This should go down about as well as swallowing castor oil during the day, with equally as many side effects.

Armed with my mocha latte and iPad to take notes on the possible fall out of the amalgamation , I sat down in prime PowerPoint viewing position. That, and I had forgotten my glasses. Turns out I needn’t have worried about the glasses as the dot points on the presentation were the size of golf balls and the font the size of a golf club. I could see clearly that the amalgamation meant that there would be rations on sticky notes, percolated coffee would be replaced with freeze dried mud and that I was surplus to requirements.

I could hear  collective inhalations by 20 heavy- weight bureaucrats giving themselves whiplash as they turned to see my reaction. I, on the other hand, was apoplectic and had not exhaled for at least three minutes. So, I did what any professional press secretary does when they need a quick get of jail free card. Staring at a blank iPhone screen I placed the phone to my ear and promptly began taking an imaginary call from an imaginary very important person. My mocha latte, laptop and I continued our imaginary conversation right out the door.

Once safely outside, apoplexy was replaced by raging anger. I wasn’t hormotional. This was Shakespearean rage. You see, the person who delivered the poisonous PowerPoint presentation was my Minister. I had taken so many bullets for that man that I could have had my own character in CSI Miami. The ballistics report would have uncovered so many color coded irrigation flow diagrams. Water flows into the farm, crops grow. No water, no crops. As the Agriculture minister, he wouldn’t know the difference between an aquifer and a turnip.

So at the age of 32 with an honors degree in chemical engineering and 10 years of professional experience, this is how I, Alexandra York, became The Temp.